A little too much nothing
by Mikiya2200
Summary: Dean finally gets what he wants and Sam meets someone in the panic room he's never met before. Kind of.. - WTLB-tag, written for the Summer-of-Sam-Love Fic-Exchange.


**A/N:** For various reasons this was extremely hard for me to write and I suffered from a very severe case of writer's block for a long time. The funny thing was that at one point I had almost finished the story (and it was completely different to what you're about to read now) and then my muses hit me over the head, took the story and ran away with it. I really hope you enjoy it. (Scullspeare's original prompt can be found at the end of the story.)

This was written for the Summer-of-Sam-Love Fic-Exchange over at Live Journal. (Oh, by the way: Sam is awesome! ;)

Betaed by the wonderful **Twinchy **who literally saved my *** with her speed-beta. Thanks a lot!

Tag for WTLB, so spoilers for seasons 1-4 up until that episode.

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**A little too much nothing**

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He watches as the man writhes on the floor in obvious pain, troubled eyes following the flailing hands as they reach out blindly for something which isn't there, desperately seeking help, comfort, _release_ from the violent shudders that are twisting the shaking body, bending it into awkward positions. Short, painful gasps for breath drift through the silent room towards him and he studies the pale face for a moment, the eyes that are scrunched shut tightly against the bright light from above. Booted feet kick helplessly against the cold cement floor as another, even stronger fit courses through the lean body, wringing a low, tired groan from the man's throat.

All he can do is stare, unmoving, eyes glued to the shaking figure on the ground; the man who looks so familiar and yet has never felt so strange to him before. He knows he should be feeling… _something_; shock, fear, horror at what he is seeing in front of him, what he is forced to watch without being able to do something about it.

But there is nothing. No hate, no anger, no compassion.

Nothing.

Because that isn't his brother, that isn't his best friend, it isn't him.

He knows the clothes, he knows the size of the worn-out jeans, and he can even remember the friggin' store where they had bought those boots all those years – _years?_ ago and still…

He is looking at a stranger.

A stranger who isn't _him_.

_--- blood --- change your brother --- creature --- kill ---_

The words come back to haunt him, spoken by a being he had not believed in only a few months before. A creature _his brother_ had been praying to for all his life, had tried to make him believe in. The irony doesn't escape him but he can't summon enough strength to think about it, ponder about the deeper meaning of it. All he knows is that his brother has changed… or is about to change, right before his eyes and he can't stop it, can't undo it. Castiel's words have changed everything, have turned his world irrevocably around and his brother into this…

A stranger.

He is dimly aware of a presence next to him, can hear Bobby's shocked gasp as he takes in the writhing form of his br— the _man_ on the ground. The gruff hunter seems to be incapable of words and the younger man knows it is up to him to do something. So he says the only thing that comes to his mind, that makes sense to him. He almost doesn't flinch when he hears himself ask, "What if he's faking?"

Bobby reacts exactly as _he_ would have done only hours before, a disbelieving look, brows drawn together into a confused frown. "You really think he would---"

A soft, pained groan from inside the panic room has their eyes snap back towards the writhing body. "I think he'd do anything…"

And then the man is suddenly airborne, hits the wall of the panic room with enough force to squeeze another choked whimper from the abused throat, and they are forced to watch how _he_ is dragged across the wall by an unseen force. Finally some sort of instinct kick in and they are fumbling for the door to get it open as Bobby breathes a shaky, "That ain't faking…" next to him.

Together they storm into the room and are at _his_ side in a few steps. Impossibly wide eyes are staring straight ahead, focused on something only the man can see while _his_ hands are once again reaching out for help. _His_ skin is almost too warm to the touch and yet, _he_ is shaking like a leaf, muscles tense, locked, body strung up so tightly, he fears they will snap _him_ in two if they apply pressure to the wrong parts. Bobby is panting next to him as they wrestle _him_ down to the ground, cursing under his breath when another bout of seizure-fed power causes the back to arch weakly off the floor and away from them.

"D-dean?"

The body suddenly stops moving, just like that.

One moment he is hanging to the flailing limbs like his life depends on it, fighting with all his might against the violent shudders and the next… everything goes just silent, the man frozen in mid-motion, back arched, eyes tightly shut, arms straining against their hold.

"Dean?"

The voice is small, hesitant, and it comes from somewhere behind him. It takes all his willpower to pull his gaze away from the frozen image of the man in front of him and he turns around slowly.

It is him.

His brother.

Sam.

He is standing behind him, on his face a lost, frightened expression he has never seen before. He feels like he has taken a trip down Memory Lane, because his brother is wearing the clothes he all but slept in for days after Jess had died: A dark hoodie he used to hide in, which is big enough to make even him look small (and almost literally screams at everybody to "leave me alone"), blue jeans that have definitely seen better days and a pair of sneakers. The very shoes he lost in that sewer a life-time ago after that damn rabbit foot's curse had hit him. He seems younger; dark eyes are staring at Dean from beneath a shaggy mop of hair, hands buried as deep into the pockets of his sweater as they will go, and to everybody who doesn't know him, he would appear to be leaning casually against the wall of the panic room.

To him though, the tense posture is a dead give-away: his brother is scared.

_Sammy…_

The dark eyes are watching his every move and Sam tenses even more when he slowly turns around completely, still crouching on the floor.

"Sam?"

"Dean?" comes the weary reply after a moment and he watches the lean body slowly move into an attentive, defensive stance, realizing with a sinking feeling that his brother is expecting to be attacked. By him. _What the—_

"Sam, is that… is that you?"

He can't believe his eyes, this has to be a trick, a hallucination maybe, perhaps he has fallen asleep after talking to Castiel earlier and his tired brain is trying to work this out, to make some sense of what he has been hearing or has found out during the last hours.

Oh God, how much he hopes--- _prays_ that this isn't real, that the writhing man next to him is just a product of his tired mind—

"Dean, where are we? What's happening?"

Dammit, it sounds so much like his brother, he actually finds himself choking on a sudden rush of memories --

_-- Sam yells in pain as the gun goes off. From where Dean is lying chained to the altar, he can't make out where exactly his brother has been hit, but from the way Sam folds into himself and hunches over only a moment after the sound, it has to be his side. The force of the bullet sends him staggering a few steps before his legs give out and he slowly sinks to the ground, still in front of Dean, still shielding his brother's bound body from the gun. The older Winchester can already feel the effects of the paralyzing poison and it's getting stronger every second. Soon he will not even be able to take a breath, let alone defend himself against the not-so-old-fashioned witch who hasn't played fair, using tranquilizer darts to knock him out. He misses out on a few minutes thanks to a sudden case of severe dizziness, and it becomes increasingly hard to hold onto a clear thought. His reality slowly disappears behind some weird dark shapes and a somehow familiar voice repeating the same words over and over; "get away from my brother, you can't have him" the last impression that follows him as he descends into nothingness -- _

_-- Sam is sitting on top of the Impala's hood, leaning back against the passenger's front window, one leg lying across the length of the hood, the other dangling limply from its side, completely relaxed as he dozes peacefully in the middle of the small parking lot. His arms are crossed over his chest and a soft summer's breeze is playing with his bangs where they hide most of his eyes from view. He doesn't wake up when Dean sneaks closer and slowly, carefully opens the driver's door. Yet, he does finally open said eyes when the Impala's horn suddenly blares and Sam jumps straight into the air like a scared cat, the sudden shift in position causing him to lose his balance and sending him tumbling down the side of he car with an indignant grunt --_

_-- Sam's eyes are bloodshot, deep, dark bags beneath them adding to the impression that he hasn't slept in days. The worried gaze is the first thing Dean becomes aware of after the drugs lose their hold on his mind, and from the way Sam just stares at him without saying a word, he knows he hasn't been unconscious for only a day. Dean is too tired to pay much attention to his surroundings, he concentrates long enough to verify he is in a hospital and his brother is sitting next to his bed in an uncomfortable looking chair, slumped forward with his upper body resting on Dean's bed somewhere close to his side. Dean lets his eyes ask a silent question and Sam reads it easily. "Four days…" his brother whispers and then closes his eyes and his head drops onto the bed, shaggy bangs slowly falling limply across his pale face as he either succumbs to sleep or simply passes out almost instantly --_

_-- Sam must have gotten almost as much water on himself as on the Impala but at least she is clean now. "Apology accepted…" Dean grumbles as he slides behind the steering wheel. Next to him is a relieved sigh, and seconds later, Sam joins him in the car, dripping water onto the upholstery – although he doesn't really mind for the next few miles --_

_-- Sam's big grin threatens to split his face as he holds up Dean's favourite shirt. Dean's once-white-now-beyond-girly-pink-shirt. And then he makes a run for it --_

_-- Sam doesn't speak for four days straight after Jess' funeral, and the first word that finally leaves his lips isn't his dead girlfriend's name but his brother's --_

_-- Sam always brings coffee first thing in the morning and then usually falls asleep as soon as they hit the road --_

"What are you doing there?"

The familiar soft voice pulls him back to the present, and he blinks and looks up at him – the hallucination – watching how the apparition cranes its neck, trying to look past him at something on the ground but still carefully keeping its distance to him.

"Sammy?"

The shaggy head tilts sideways and the familiar, still suspicious but warm gaze wanders across his body, studying him. "Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean is torn between apprehension and suspicion. He can read the tense body language as easily as ever and finds himself starting to ignore his doubts, doesn't want to fight his instincts which are telling him it is indeed Sam standing there in front of him. Although he has no idea how this is even possible. The hunter inside him quickly leafs through the possibilities; _ghost_ (but he has not seen him flicker), _shapeshifter_ (but they usually don't come with time-stops), _thought-form_ (though he can't remember seeing one of those magic-enhancing symbols anywhere) or someone playing mind-tricks on him (which he would probably never find out because he has no way of knowing). So, he basically dismisses them as quickly as they turn up.

Because the _brother_ in him just longs for it to be real.

"Dude, what the hell?" Sam is losing his patience and his curiosity finally gets the better of him. While Dean is still searching for the right words to say, his brother takes a few, cautious steps towards and then around him, eyes widening when they come to rest on the frozen form of himself lying there, back arched, eyes wide open, staring at nothing, Bobby's belt stuck between his teeth to keep him from biting his tongue. Dean can sympathize with the shocked expression that slowly creeps across Sam's features as he tries to process what he is seeing.

"What are you doing—What's happening to me?!"

"Bobby and I… we're trying to help you, Sam…" Dean breaks off, losing words and nerve. He can't do it, can't tell him what has brought this on. But Sam doesn't really listen to him, he is already trying to figure it out himself, Dean can tell that much just by the way his brother's brow wrinkles and how he takes a really long, thoughtful look at the panic room.

"Trying to help—Dean, you're different—_I'm_ different… Am I… Is this—is this the future?"

Suddenly Sam freezes, his eyes grow even wider as he slowly backs away, gaze fixed on the frozen image in front of him. "Is this… am I having a vision?"

Dean is speechless, can't think for a moment, doesn't know how to answer that. Right, a vision. Of course, this is what it has to look like to him.

"Sam, listen…" He rises slowly, hands held out in front of him to try and calm his younger brother down, and something inside him tightens painfully when Sam doesn't back away from him but looks up at him with so much trust shining in his eyes, it takes his breath away.

"Dean?"

"Sammy… I… this is no vision… I guess... this is happening right now… to you…" He briefly gestures toward Bobby and the older Sam and shrugs helplessly. "I have no idea how… why they are not moving… I swear I feel like I'm in the fucking ‚Twilight Zone'…"

Sam just looks at him, he isn't really happy with this. "If this is no vision… and I'm still here and you're talking to me… Maybe this is some kind of out-of-body-experience?"

Out-of-body… Well, with everything that has been happening to them in the last days, he wouldn't completely rule out that possibility. Maybe Castiel—

"Dean… am I dying?"

Oh God, no.

It's the quiet voice that gets him, the soft understanding, _acceptance_ he can sense, like even if Sam _was_ dying –which he is not, no way, he won't let that happen so help him God, angels or even the Devil himself – it would be okay, wouldn't be the worst case scenario and that is just wrong on so many levels he can't even begin to think about it.

He wants to become angry, wants to yell at that stupid little brother of his to make him see what this is doing to him and he even opens his mouth to rip him a new one.

But all that comes out is a weary sigh and words he would not approve of if his mouth was actually under his command.

"I don't know, Sammy, I don't know what happened, how… when—God, I'm so sorry…"

It comes crushing down on him that instant, the fear of the last months, frustration for not being able to do anything, forced to stand by and watch how they were drifting apart, the lies, the accusations, mistrust.

Sam is watching him with the look he usually wears when he's trying to figure something out, eyes never leaving his face, taking in everything he is saying… or isn't saying for that matter, reading him like one of his law books. Seeing right through him. And he just knows he can't hide it anymore, can't shut him out any longer.

"Dean, what happened?"

Except the words won't come.

"Dean?"

He can't look at him.

"I'm sorry…" He has to force the words out through his tight throat, almost chokes on them. "I'm so sorry."

Sam tilts his head slightly. "Everybody keeps saying that to me… Sorry for what, Dean?"

"This is all my fault, Sam. I—" He swallows hard, fights even harder to keep his voice under control, doesn't want it to break, to lose what little grasp he still has on his emotions.

Sam doesn't react, just looks at him.

"I failed you, Sam, I couldn't save you, I messed this up…"

Sam simply shakes his head.

"No, you didn't—"

"Sam—"

"—you didn't fail me, Dean. You did everything you could to help me."

"Sam, stop—"

"I know that—"

"Sammy, please—just stop—"

"—because I know _you_. You wouldn't give up on me, I know that much, so whatever has happened is not your fault."

He can't breathe, hearing his brother say those words, feeling that unconditional trust he still has in him after everything that has happened –even though Sam doesn't seem to remember anything about the past months— for some reason hurts worse than anything he has ever felt before. He tries to come up with something to tell him, anything that could ease the lump in his throat but finds himself just as lost for words as before. And suddenly Sam's moving, coming closer to him and looking down at himself. This time his gaze is curious when he finally looks over at Dean.

"What's happening to me?"

And this is it, the moment where he has to come true, has to tell him everything, every fucking detail that hurts him so much and it's going freak his brother out. Maybe he won't even believe him at all because it really does sound crazy, even more so as Sam, his Sammy, the little brother he'd do anything for is standing there in front of him. He would give anything, any-fucking-thing not to have to do this but suddenly he can't stop the words from rushing out of his mouth.

"You're… we had to… Sam, you've been drinking demon blood, Bobby and I are trying to help you but it's getting stronger and it's flinging you all over the place—"

He breaks off, can't say another word, can only watch how Sam's eyes grow impossibly huge and he stares at him, curiosity slowly turning into disbelief and then horror. "Demon blood? ME? I--- what? Why would I do that?"

That's the billion dollar question and again he doesn't have an answer.

"I don't know, I just don't know, Sam…"

Sam's alternately watching him and staring at himself on the floor in disbelief, trying to make sense of it. But it isn't working, Dean knows the exact moment his brother gives up, gives in to the horror of the situation and just stares at him, lost for words.

Which, naturally, doesn't last long.

"Dean…"

Something's changed, something's different than only a moment before, he can feel it. Sam's words are soft, like he isn't sure if he really wants to say them, but his eyes aren't leaving Dean's face. There's something in those brown depths that catches his attention, something strange and yet completely familiar and it draws him in, holds his gaze and doesn't allow him to look away. And only when Sam whispers his next words and leans in a little as if he is sharing a big secret does he finally get what it has always been about.

"Dean, the only reason I would do something like that… to me… to _us_… would be if doing it would save you."

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Somewhere in my life  
There's one light burning  
Feel it like my heart beating inside  
Somewhere in my life  
There's one light burning  
Glowing in your eyes  
Lightning up the skies  
Leading the way

Richie Sambora, "One light burning"

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**Prompt by scullspeare**

_Tag to When the Levee Breaks: The look on Dean's face as he and Bobby held down a convulsing Sam during his demon blood detox spoke so clearly to me of the love he has for his brother and how terrified he was by what Sam was going through. What memories flashed through his head at that instant? Can be happy moments, illustrating how awesome Sam is as a brother, friend and partner, or other occasions when Dean feared he might lose his little brother to evil, injury or illness._


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